


When The Dreams Run Dry

by artemis_stormborn



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, The 100 (TV) Season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26802250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artemis_stormborn/pseuds/artemis_stormborn
Summary: In an alternate ending where Bellamy transcends, Clarke has to deal with the emotional fallout from failing The Test.(Basically, I'm diverging from 7x16 and giving a little more room for Clarke - and the ending - to breathe.)
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been inspired by The Killers' song, "When The Dreams Run Dry". Highly recommend listening to it after you read this first chapter :) 
> 
> This story will be split into different parts. This first part, "On The Verge of Eternal", will continue when I post the second chapter. 
> 
> Thank you and I hope you enjoy!

**On The Verge of Eternal**

_Reach for the summit  
Of an ancient design  
On the verge of eternal  
On the heels of divine_

**1.**

Clarke shook with adrenaline, sweat soaking the gun she clutched in her palm. It was her one memento from Bardo. A cursed memento, but something to hold onto all the same. 

She decided to spend her first night alone on Sanctum, unable to think about her next move. At least Sanctum was familiar. Eerily empty, but familiar. For now, all she wanted was some semblance of comfort to drown out her thoughts. Picasso provided that with her fierce companionship, curled up at Clarke’s feet in the bed that used to belong to Murphy and Emori. 

_Sleep first,_ she thought. _Interplanetary travel tomorrow._

Clarke sat up abruptly and double-checked that she had put the safety on her gun. There was no way she was risking anything happening to the precious—and loyal—Picasso. Clarke had already lost too much. 

“Loyalty isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, you know,” she said, smiling wearily at the golden retriever. “Look where it got me.”

Picasso wagged her tail in response, her chestnut eyes gazing deep into Clarke’s soul as if she could feel the pain of losing everyone, too. 

“Guess we’re both stubborn, huh?” Clarke sighed. She gave Picasso a gentle pat on the head. “Let’s try and get some sleep, girl.”

Clarke sunk back into the pillow, dust scattering around her face. After a few minutes of readjusting, she placed the gun on the bedside table. 

_You don’t need this,_ she told herself. _You don’t need a gun to sleep._

There were no threats here anymore. Sheidheda wasn’t looming over Sanctum, playing his manipulative games akin to moves on a chess board. And there were no more tribal divides between the Sons of Gabriel and Eligius. Clarke wasn’t even afraid of the red sun toxin. If it came back, she would give into its dizzying effects. She would surrender and let fate take over. For once. 

But there was nothing that Clarke feared more right now than being alone in the whole universe—across stones, planets, wormholes, space and time. She was a burden. Unredeemable. Wanheda. 

When she did finally drift to sleep, visions of The Test came into view. In a hazy dream, she found herself back on the rickety pier that the celestial beings manifested through Cadogan. One by one, stars that sparkled like beacons in the mauve sky appeared. Clarke squinted until they turned into blurred speckles, shapeless and meaningless. 

_Maybe that’s all we are,_ she thought. _Insignificant._

Clarke shook her head, regaining clear vision. Her eyes flitted to Cadogan’s lifeless body. She watched the scene play out again: the piercing gunshot. The blood that pooled out of Cadogan’s mouth and onto his white robe. Clarke’s fleeting feeling of retribution. 

Once a symbol of power, Cadogan’s cloak of Discipleship now meant nothing. He was nothing. The deceitful man who had tormented Clarke’s friends and daughter was finally dead, his blood splattered across the pier.

She should have felt victorious. Gleeful. Cadogan was her enemy, after all—the reason that Madi was braindead. Instead, crippling remorse washed over Clarke. Had she really jeopardized everything? Or did she make the right move?

Then, Lexa came into focus. Well, the projection of Lexa. Radiant and loving all the same. This pseudo-reunion was the first time Clarke had felt like she was safe, at home and at peace, in a long time. She felt loved, even if it was all a mirage. 

Clarke knew what was coming next. Lexa repeated the words that had sent ripples of regret through Clarke’s body the first time she heard them. 

“Bellamy transcended.” 

_Bellamy was right._

Clarke gulped, snapping back to the present moment. Tears streamed down her cheeks and smeared the tousled sheets. 

“Bellamy was right,” she said aloud. “And I was wrong.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. I'm on a roll! I must miss The 100...
> 
> Here's Chapter 2 of "On The Verge of Eternal", part 1 of "When The Dreams Run Dry". 
> 
> Chapter 3 will be from a different character's perspective. Hold on tight... and enjoy! :)

**2.**

That night, Clarke ended up getting three hours of sleep. Okay, two hours and fifty-five minutes if she was being honest. Still, it felt more like one hour.

Despite her sleep deprivation, Clarke didn’t care. She was through with being accurate; calculated. Eight hours of soundless sleep wasn’t realistic. Two hours and fifty-five minutes that felt more like one hour would have to do. 

There was no point in measuring anything anymore, mapping out her next move with ruthless precision. The endless pursuit of perfectionism had only gotten her one thing: eternal alone time. 

Plans, like everything else that used to matter, were dead. 

When Clarke opened her eyes, she was met with Picasso’s shimmery, golden fur in her face. Clarke attempted a laugh, but it sounded hollow, like she was trying to remember how to be human. How to be happy. 

Clarke forced a smile. Laughter would be tomorrow's goal, maybe.

“Picasso… What are you doing?” 

The retriever rolled over onto her back, tongue dangling out of her open mouth. She was in a playful mood. The complete opposite of Clarke’s groggy, disheveled state of mind. 

“Fine,” Clarke said, giving in and rubbing Picasso’s exposed belly. “You win.” 

Today was a new day. Picasso’s naivety reminded Clarke that there were glimpses of hope, however brief. Like dancing in the rain for the first time, back when Earth was romantic and full of promise. 

_Yet we always mess it up,_ she thought. _Those celestial judges were right._

_Bellamy was right._

The words sounded almost foreign, like reverberations of her own voice. Distorted and disconnected. Clarke wanted to leave these haunting words behind, but she couldn’t shake them from her conscience. Not even Picasso could distract her as the brief moment of hope faded into despair. 

Clarke had lost everything and everyone in the last twenty-four hours. She was prepared to cry herself to sleep every night for the rest of her life. And it wasn’t because she had done what was right. 

It was because she knew that she was wrong. 

When Bellamy had returned from Etherea, Clarke dismissed his faith. Ever the scientist, she had always approached spirituality and religion with a healthy dose of skepticism. And after all they had experienced on Earth, she saw how belief could be used to justify the most horrendous atrocities known to mankind. But there was something about watching Bellamy betray her—the way he turned his back on her to side with Cadogan and the disciples—that was far more terrifying than the mind-numbing cult of the City of Light or the Primes’ vain quest for immortality. 

Bellamy had felt at peace, he told her back on Bardo. He said he felt a light, an all-encompassing warmth, that comforted him unlike anything he had ever felt. Back on Bardo, Clarke had discounted him as brainwashed. She had called him a traitor. _“For all mankind”... my ass._

Now, after feeling that same light and warmth with the projection of Lexa, Clarke knew. Clarke finally understood. 

Faith wasn’t foolish. Faith meant taking a risk. And, unfortunately, it was a risk that she took too late. Hell, even after The Test, Clarke wasn’t totally sure she could fully make the leap from agnostic to believer. She just knew that she had let her best friend, the one who always believed in her, down.

Clarke wandered aimlessly around Sanctum the whole morning. She traced her fingertips over the elaborate staircase railing, remembering all that had happened on this moon. Throughout the red sun toxin spells, the Josephine Mindspace battles, and chaotic tribalism, Bellamy was there. By her side, never faltering. Always rising to the occasion to protect her. To save her. Again and again.

Clarke walked down the staircase slowly, finally stopping in the exact spot where Bellamy had embraced her after Abby’s death. That loving embrace, not the emotionless one on Bardo, would stand out forever in Clarke’s mind. 

A loud bark snapped Clarke out of her nostalgia. Picasso was at the top of the staircase, tail wagging, coaxing Clarke to head inside. 

Staring at the grand entrance made Clarke feel nauseous. She gulped, trying to bury the feeling of regret before it pooled out. Her throat was dry, aggravated from crying and dehydration. It was like she was stranded in the desert again after Praimfaya. Soon enough she would be on her knees again, gun aimed at her head, ready to succumb to the darkest of thoughts. 

“Picasso!” Her voice cracked. “I don’t… I’m not ready to go up there.” She patted her thigh, as if that noise alone could convince the stubborn pup. “Come down here.”

Picasso barked again, dismissing Clarke’s plea, and trotted into the main entrance. 

Clarke gulped again. _Face your demons, right?_ she thought. 

With each step of her boots, Clarke felt the thud of her heart beating in time. She had killed a lot of people, caused a lot of pain and destruction in the name of protecting her people. But this kill, the memory of the stone room, was the one she would never forgive herself for. 

When Clarke found Picasso, the clueless retriever was sitting obediently beside the stone. 

“You think we need to go?” Clarke chuckled. She glanced around reluctantly, taking in the grand, empty room. A chill of remorse shot through her spine, up through her neck and into her jaw. “Yeah, I agree. We need to get the hell out of here.”

The stone seemed to stare at Clarke accusingly. She knew it was all in her head, a trick that the grief was playing on her, but it felt real. Her throat tightened and she realized just how parched she was. But instead of focusing on water, on that stupid thing called survival, Clarke gave into her emotions. 

Tears stung the corners of her eyes. She was reliving the last few seconds before she shot Bellamy in the heart. Her thoughts took over as she paced: 

_You shot him in the heart, you coward. You killed your best friend. And for what? Your daughter is dead, too. You’re a terrible mother. A terrible friend. A terrible human being._

Clarke spiraled until she let out a yelp and collapsed to the ground—in the very spot Bellamy took his last breath. She stayed there, kneeling, for more hours than she had slept. In anguish. In mourning. In hope that she could somehow be forgiven by her best friend, an eternal being of light and warmth, in the celestial sky.


End file.
